


This, Too, Is Love

by tielan



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey
Genre: Attraction, Desire, F/F, F/M, Female Friendship, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 16:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amarante has always known her calling. This, too, is grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This, Too, Is Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivy/gifts).



> Beta'd by pauraque. All errors remaining are mine.

 

_"Her name was Amarante, and she was the first royal companion. This temple was built for her."_

Sunlight blinds Amarante as she watches the dove flutter up through the brilliant day and out through the oculus.

“A good sign,” murmurs her mother behind her.

Amarante licks her lips, the lingering remnants of wine and honey-cake sweet beneath the scent of chrism in the air around her. Naamah’s blessing glows in her belly, she feels the beat of Naamah’s blood in her veins.

She barely hears the priest’s welcome into the order.

Naamah’s hand is bright upon her.

* * *

The stablehand is older, worn and tired; the lordling is proud and handsome - a scion of Azza.

Yet longing lies not in titles or in bloodlines, but in the spirit, in the yearning for the grace of Naamah and not merely the act of love.

In the morning, Amarante takes with her the memory of his hands, rough and calloused against her skin, and the way he turned his cheek against hers.

This, too, is grace.

* * *

Her mother comes back from the Guild of Naamah’s Servants with a thoughtful expression. She inquires only absently of Amarante’s studies, and after a little time, sits down in her accustomed chair in the quarters they share in the Great Temple in Elua’s City.

“You were discussed today after the council, Amarante.”

It is not what she expects her mother to say. “Why?”

“Phèdre nó Delaunay and I have been considering the matter of the Princess Sidonie de la Courcel.” Eyes as green as Amarante’s own regard her. “Something that Queen Ysandre once said to Phèdre – that she was forbidden the servants of Naamah because virginity was something highly prized by the barbarians – one of whom she might later need to wed. And that Ysandre had never known someone whose council she could wholly trust until she met Lord Drustan.”

Amarante sees the shape of things as they stand. “A lover and counsellor.”

“A companion and friend. Someone trustworthy, who is for her and her alone.”

And Amarante is of an age with the Princess, trained as a priestess of Naamah, and daughter of the priestess of the Great Temple – well familiar with the politics of land and Court, but capable of staying out of them.

There will be politics. These are complicated times – if not so tenuous as the early years of Queen Ysandre’s reign, still uncertain ones with Melisande Shahrizai abroad, her location unknown, and her son two heartbeats from the throne.

“How thinks the Queen on this?”

“She thinks it a good idea.” Bèréngere smiles. “I do not know if the Comtesse de Montrève has been planting seeds all these years, but it would not surprise me. Queen Ysandre welcomed the idea – subject to the candidate.”

“And your candidate was me?”

“Phèdre suggested you. I had not thought on it until then.”

Amarante is not insensible of the honour of being recognised - singled out – by Phèdre nó Delaunay, Comtesse de Montrève, Companion of the Realm and _anguissette_ , but she is surprised, too.

“Nothing would be done without first consulting you,” her mother says. “And there are your studies. You would have to put them off while you served as the Dauphine’s companion.”

It gives Amarante pause. She has trained for this since she was but a child, dedicating herself to Naamah at fourteen, an acolyte of the priesthood of Naamah since then. Naamah’s blood beats in her veins, Naamah’s gifts run silken beneath her skin. Her mother is the head of Naamah’s Order, and she has neither known anything else, nor wanted anything else.

But is this a diversion – temporary – or something more?

“I...” She hesitates. “Mother?”

“You have time to think on it,” Bèréngere reassures her. “The Queen thinks that the new year will serve as a good time to set up Princess Sidonie’s court, so you have until then.”

* * *

The widower offers his bed for the night. Amarante offers her body in it.

His grief clings to him like a shadow, and she brushes his tears away as he moves deep within her, his hands holding her hips in place. His wife died too young, of a wasting disease that mystified the Eisandine physician in the next village. And he loved her spirit, too, but her illness left her no strength for the arts of love, and he hasn’t desired any others since she died.

Amarante is not of Balm House, but there is healing here.

This, too, is grace.

* * *

When Amarante arrives at the royal court in the new year, the gossip is still buzzing about Prince Imriel’s plot against the Queen. _Alleged_ plot, anyway.

“It’s stupid,” Princess Alais says bluntly to her sister and Amarante, having stormed into Sidonie’s solar while the two are learning each other over a warm drink. “Imriel isn’t like that. You _know_ Imriel’s not like that, Sidonie!”

“The circumstances are compelling to some people,” Sidonie says in the voice of the trained politician.

Alais looks up from scratching her wolfhound’s neck, her sharp, dark face shocked. “Sidonie! You can’t actually think that Imriel...?”

“I said, ‘ _to some people._ ’” The Dauphine is not in a pleasant mood. “That doesn’t have to include me.”

“Then why don’t you _say_ anything? Why won’t you _defend_ him?”

“And what could I say that would change what is being said about him?” Sidonie demands of her sister. Her eyes snap with anger. “Was his mother a traitor to the realm? Yes. Could he be plotting treachery? Of course he _could_ be. Do I believe he _is_ plotting to inherit the throne? No, I don’t. But I’d be believed no more than Mother is.”

“But at least you’d have spoken up for Imriel!”

“I doubt that Imriel would appreciate _my_ support.” There is a hint of bitterness in Sidonie’s voice that makes Amarante look up through her lashes at the Dauphine. “I’ll save my voice for something that can make a difference, Alais.”

The younger princess fumes, but takes herself out of the solar after apologising quite prettily for interrupting Amrarante’s conversation with Sidonie.

“Elua!” Sidonie mutters into her teacup. “Well, welcome to the palace, Amarante. Where gossip and intrigue abound, and princesses yell at each other over things they actually agree upon.”

“You don’t question Prince Imriel’s loyalty?”

“Do you think I should?”

The question is a cool challenge. Amarante wraps her hands around her cup and shrugs.

“I know little of the Prince beyond the facts, although I have heard a great deal of gossip.” She thinks of her mother, and the little bits and pieces her mother has shared with her about the most famous courtesan of the realm. “I can’t see Phèdre nó Delaunay and Joscelin Verreuil harbouring a traitor under their roof.”

“Alais has always been fond of Imriel,” Sidonie says after a moment. “And he is fond of her in return.”

Amarante is tempted to ask Sidonie _her_ thoughts on Imriel de la Courcel, but they are still developing trust between them, and the nascent bonds are sometimes fragile.

* * *

Mavros groans as she lifts her head from the _languisement_. “My Lady Cruelty, have mercy upon me!”

“You have two hands.” Amarante licks a droplet of seed from her lips and his eyes heat like blue fire. “You could have mercy upon yourself.”

But that is something neither of them desires.

She rides him instead, his teeth sharp and fierce on her throat and shoulders, his hands clutching her breasts, pinching her nipples. And she marks him with her nails in a deep and desperate grasp, wanting, aching, having. Their laughter commingles as he spills himself within her.

This, too, is grace.

* * *

She regrets leaving Sidonie now, when Imriel has been gone so long.

“You’ve put your life on hold for me once,” Sidonie says when Amarante brings up the possibility of staying on. “Naamah calls you – you should answer.”

“Naamah is very patient,” Amarante replies gently as she tucks herself in among the cushions. “I’m more concerned about you.”

Unsaid, the reasons hang between them.

Sidonie has always held herself close. Even with Amarante, she keeps her counsel, although her trust and tenderness are plain. And Amarante has kept Sidonie's counsel, too - through politics and heartbreak, through doubt and uncertainty. She has aided and abetted desire - or, at least, the learning of what may be love - and held fast through the storm of the Queen's anger in the aftermath.

But Blessed Elua cared naught for kings or thrones, and Naamah lay with condemned criminals as well as great rulers, so Amarante holds to that which is her canon - love.

So many reasons to stay, yet the most compelling of them is simply love. Amarante of Namarre loves Sidonie de la Courcel.

And Sidonie loves her back. “There’s nothing you can do staying here.” Her fingers brush down Amarante’s cheek with a wry smile . “Mother and I are on civil terms regarding Imriel, and being here won’t bring news of him any faster than not being here. You should go and finish your service to Naamah.”

“Are you sure?”

Dark eyes meet Amarante’s gaze solemnly – unusual eyes for a D’Angeline, not so unusual for Cruithne, utterly sure in Sidonie’s face. “Yes. I’ll miss you, but I’m sure.”

Amarante tilts her head and trails the back of her fingers down the inside of Sidonie’s wrist, and smiles to feel the fractional increase in her pulse, like doves wings beating in her blood. “I’ll miss you, too.”

Sidonie, she knows, has a rare few hours free of appointments, meetings, or responsibility.

They make good use of them.

Some time later, she kisses Sidonie farewell – soft and clinging and gentle – and goes back to her own rooms to prepare for Naamah’s Service.

* * *

Naamah’s temple for star-crossed lovers is dedicated the spring after Sidonie and Imriel are married.

All day the doves are released and the incense is burned. Offerings of honey and wine are poured out, and the crowds come and go – some with the blessing of Naamah, some without.

In twilight, when the world begins to still, Amarante stops before the statue.

She looks up into a face that is her own and yet somehow not. The sculptor has carved somewhat into it that is more graceful, more compassionate than Amarante imagines she could ever look, ever be - Naamah’s divine beauty, Naamah’s divine grace.

Faint incense wafts through the air, cutting through the richness of the chrism that underpins the aromas of sweet honey and fruity wine. Doves coo faintly over the sounds of the evening.

Amarante closes her eyes and prays.

_Great lady, bless this temple, built in your name, to your purpose – that all may love as they will._

She feels the bright beat of wings in her blood.

This, too, is grace.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for the present tense. I tried to write it in past, and it wouldn't work. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
